


Persephone

by Cicerothewriter



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Established Relationship, Friendship, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash, Violence, pre-WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-29
Updated: 2012-06-29
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:17:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicerothewriter/pseuds/Cicerothewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hastings has to return to his ranch in Argentina, and Poirot is not happy.  1939 is a dangerous year to travel the Atlantic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Persephone

**Author's Note:**

> Series: Same as my other stories.
> 
> Note: Thanks to Molegirl for the information about ships and boating safety, and to Nemo_neminem for the French/Spanish help.
> 
> Note 2: This is written again in alternating 1st and 3rd person. I like this style a lot, and hopefully you all don't mind it too much.

"Hastings?"

"Yes?"

"Hastings, you are distracting me."

"That's the point, old chap."

"I wish to read the paper without the diversion, Hastings," Poirot said with a bit of sharpness to his voice.

I sighed and stood up from where I had been kissing Poirot's neck. His paper hid us from Ms. Lemon's sight, and I was using this to best advantage; however, it seemed as though Poirot did not wish to play. I pressed a kiss to his head, and then resumed my seat on the couch.

"I have some correspondence to see to anyway," I said in an off-hand manner so that I did not reveal how stung I felt by his rejection.

Poirot returned to his paper, a hint of displeasure in the curve of his moustache, and I started to sort through the small pile of mail. For several minutes I was distracted by a gentleman's clothing catalogue, but then I discovered the letter from the supervisor of my farm in the Argentine. His letter detailed several problems that had recently arisen. A flood had not only wiped out a large share of crops but also damaged part of the house. However, more alarming was the report of Nazis in the area, and two had even visited the farm with a government official as escort.

I brought this news to the attention of Poirot, who listened as I read to him the relevant parts. After I had finished, he asked, "What does M. Estevagio want you to do?"

"He doesn't say," I replied, "but I shall have to return there soon."

Poirot's eyes widened a bit, and he said, "But Hastings, have you not seen the news?" He turned the opened newspaper so that I could see it, and then pointed to an article on first page.

GERMAN WARSHIPS HARASS BRITISH MERCHANT SHIPS

I read the article, and said, "I cannot leave Estevagio to deal with this on his own, Poirot. The farm is my responsibility."

"But it is unsafe to travel on the sea," Poirot said.

"Waiting won't make the trip any safer," I replied, pleased by my logic.

" _Non_ , but you can avoid the danger by corresponding by the letter or telegraph. That is safer," Poirot said with a nod.

"I should really be there in person," I replied. "And I'm not afraid of a few Germans in the ocean. They're just trying to throw their weight around."

"They are dangerous, _mon ami_ ," he said sharply.

"I am well aware of this fact," I replied, ignoring the phantom pain in my leg.

Poirot gave me an apologetic look, and said, "Of course you are, but I would rather you not experience their violence again."

Thankfully I had omitted to mention that Nazis had visited the farm as well or else I would not have been able to convince him at all. "I know you will worry about me, Poirot, but I shall take as much care as I am able. The farm and all the people on it are my responsibility. I shall have to go; I have no other choice."

Poirot looked skeptical. Ms. Lemon entered the room, and we spoke no more about the matter until after Poirot's meeting with a client.

"I do not like it," Poirot said softly.

"Mr. Nelson? I thought that he was a straightforward enough chap."

"Mr. Nelson is, as you say, 'straightforward'. _Non_ , I was referring to your impending voyage."

I sighed, "Must we discuss the matter further?"

"Hastings," Poirot said, his tone such as might be directed to a child. "I do not think you fully appreciate the danger."

"I am not some naïve child, Poirot," I said, giving voice to my thoughts. "I know how to take care of myself."

"You are not the child," Poirot replied, and I knew from the increased volume that he was becoming upset. "But sometimes you charge in without considering fully the situation."

"That is unfair," I cried, standing up from the settee. "I know more about the Argentine than you do. I have made this voyage several times, and I know the dangers. I know the warning signs and the troubled areas. Why do you think I was not taken when the coup happened? A coup which you walked into, I might add."

I knew I had gone too far when Poirot's eyes flared and his cheeks flushed; he stood quickly, and said, " _Mais oui_ , a coup into which I walked in order to visit a friend who was not concerned enough to inquire as to my absence from our planned meeting until many years later when I mentioned it. A friend who did not trouble himself to alert me as to the dangers."

I stood there stupidly, my mouth hanging open. I felt a wave of anger but also shame. I had assumed at the time that Poirot had decided not to travel after all because he hated to travel, and I had been angry at him for not considering me worth the hassles of travel. I had congratulated myself on my own adventurous spirit and hardiness. At finding out my friend had been deported under my very nose I had felt mortified.

Before I could say anything, we heard a cough from behind us. Inspector Japp looked at embarrassed as I felt.

"Er, Poirot, I wanted to talk with you about the Bessant case, but since you are busy…" He looked back and forth between us, his expression worried but also curious.

"No, Poirot is free," I said quickly. I needed time to think; I did not wish to say something that I would later regret – or at least, nothing more than I would already regret. "I have to make some arrangements before I leave."

"Leave?" Japp said, turning as I walked past him to take my coat and hat.

"I have to make a trip to the Argentine," I said.

As I closed the front door, I heard him say, "Better you than me."

* * *

Poirot closed his eyes when he heard the door slam, and sat back down. He would have made a more defeatist gesture if Inspector Japp were not in the room. That was certainly not how he wanted the conversation to end.

"How can I assist you, chief inspector?"

Japp wanted to ask what had started their fight. He considered them both friends – had been a witness to their wedding – and so he felt as though he had at least some right to ask; however, Poirot looked ready to explode.

"It's about the Bessant case, Poirot."

"Ah, yes, the forgery."

"My boys found some information that I thought you might want to hear."

Poirot turned his attention to the case, although he was aware that Japp was curious about the argument he had overheard. No doubt Ms. Lemon was also interested, but he felt that he should talk to Hastings before anyone else. His temper still flared when he thought about Hastings' words. "A coup which you walked into, I might add."

Poirot was not accustomed to being so clueless and out of his depth, and he had also been hurt that Hastings had not bothered to send a letter or a telegram to him asking about his health. He had rarely thought about the incident once he and Hastings were married. It seemed unimportant to bring up such old hurts.

Hastings did not return home until late in the evening. Poirot was waiting for him, but Hastings mumbled a good evening, and then retired for bed. When Poirot finished the chapter he had been reading and went to bed, Hastings was fast asleep, curled up on his own side.

Poirot sighed, and dressed for bed. He hated leaving their argument unresolved, but it would have to remain so for tonight.

* * *

I had intended to remain on my own side for the duration of the night as a statement of protest, but when I woke, I was curled against Poirot, my head resting against his neck and my arm over his stomach. His arms were tight around my body. I contemplated how I would have to sleep without his arms around me while I was gone, and I felt an ache deep in my gut.

I pulled back so that I could see his face; his brow was tight, and he looked worried even in sleep. I kissed him gently, and then resumed my previous position.

His arms tighten around me, and I knew that he was awake. I kissed his neck, and then murmured, "I'm sorry, Hercule. You know what a fool I can be."

He kissed my brow, and said softly, " _Oui, mon cher_ Arthur, and you know what a temper I have."

I nodded at his words. Our kiss was gentle, almost timid, but I was relieved to feel his affection once more.

 

We went about our days as usual but for the sense of rawness that I felt. Poirot was distracted and tense, and although I knew that I was responsible for this, I did not waver in my decision.

Poirot was still upset about my decision, but he also knew that he could not dissuade me from my goal. On our last night together, he prepared a sumptuous dinner comprised of all my favorites, and we spoke of anything but my impending trip. I suspected that this was his way of apologizing to me for his behavior.

Afterwards, when we were seated on the settee, I embraced him and said, "You worry too much, Poirot. I will be all right."

Poirot shook his head, and said softly, "Even if you were not in danger, Hastings, I would still be unwilling to let you go. You will be gone for a long time."

That admission deserved a kiss, and we spent a few minutes exchanging such a pleasure. "I shall return as soon as I am able," I murmured, caressing his cheek.

"I know, _mon chou_ , but not soon enough."

I sighed, "Poirot-"

He interrupted me. " _Non, non,_ , I do not wish to resume our argument… not tonight."

"Nor do I," I replied.

Poirot kissed me once more, his hands on my upper arms, holding me tightly as he did when he would greet me upon my return from a trip abroad. I felt an intense thrill in my bones at his possessive grip, but was uncertain how to convey my approval. So I kissed him harder.

He pulled away long enough to murmur, "To bed, Hastings."

"Why not here?" I said, kissing his jaw.

"It is uncomfortable, and not adequate for both of us. My back still has not put itself right since the last time we made love on it," he said.

"Your back?" I said, unable to stop my smirk. "I was the one on my knees."

I was pleased by his visceral reaction to my words. He tugged me up by my arms, and said firmly, "To bed."

I laughed, feeling happier than I had since the arrival of that letter.

 

At the train station, we said our public goodbyes. Poirot was stoic, and I tried my best to emulate him, but inside I was a ball of nerves. For a brief moment, I considered cancelling my trip. What if Poirot were right? What if I never saw Poirot again, and it was my own fault? Last night, as Poirot lay in unhappy sleep beside me, I considered the possibilities, but I knew that if I cancelled my trip, it would be more difficult for me to attempt another one. I would have already allowed the fear to cement itself within me.

My luggage was loaded, and I turned to Poirot. "Well, this is it. Goodbye, old chap. I shall see you in a couple of months." Hopefully sooner, I said to myself.

"Goodbye, _mon ami_ ," he replied. We embraced once more, and if our embrace went on a shade too long, no one was paying attention to us; they were wrapt up in their own farewells.

I turned away, my hand on the carriage's jamb, intending to board. We had agreed for safety's sake to make this as calm and matter-of-fact a farewell, but I could not leave without saying what I had lacked the courage to say since our argument.

The conductor urged me to board, and I did so, but then I turned and immediately opened the window of the train. There was no one in the compartment with me, and so I could say what I wished without anyone too close.

"Poirot," I said, and he turned in surprise. His expression was mild, but whatever emotion he saw in my face made his dark eyes keen and alert. Before he could admonish me for ruining our agreement, I said, "I'm sorry."

He was confused, but I hurried because I could feel the train begin to move. "I'm sorry I didn't write or telegraph," said as softly as I could while still being understood over the hissing of the train. "I thought you had cancelled without telling me. I had been thrilled that you were coming. I wanted to show off my farm to you – to show you that I could be a success in my own right. I wanted you to be proud of me."

The train jerked and started to move. Surely it was the hot smoke in the air that made my eyes water and not the threat of tears.

"Hastings!" Poirot said, and he reached out to me.

"I shall return soon," I said. He stood on the platform as I pulled away, and the fear in his eyes followed me for many weeks after. He knew why I had picked so poor a time to explain myself; I had finally realized the dangers.

I was grateful that I had the compartment to myself because the smoke lingered in my eyes.

 

The sea voyage had been uneventful, and I passed the time with reading, swimming, and conversation. My normal emotions upon traveling to Argentina were of joy and excitement, but this time I only felt distress and loneliness. Perhaps Poirot's worries were affecting me because I was less than eager to resume my duties.

My first emotion upon returning to my farm was absolute dismay. The fields were barren but for the smell of rotting vegetation. The house was in disrepair, and I could easily see the damage from the road. When I entered the building and called out, no one greeted me. I had written to Estevagio so that he would know when I would arrive, but the building seemed abandoned.

I shifted through the mail piled on the floor near the door, and found the letter I had written to him unopened. A few other letters were addressed by Argentinean government officials. I took the letters that seemed important, and stuffed them into my jacket pocket. A sudden sense of impending danger affected me, and haste seemed to be the best course of action.

I searched the house quickly to make sure that there was no one present. I took up my suitcase once more, thankful that I had not brought more in, and left through the front door. When I stepped outside, I saw an unfamiliar car stop behind my own. Three gentlemen, one an Argentinean, the others European, stepped out.

"Captain Hastings," the Argentinean said. "How fortuitous that we should arrive at the same time."

I glanced at the other two men. Their armbands clearly displayed the swastika.

"Did you wish to speak with me?" I said, setting down my suitcase.

"Yes, if you will come with us," he said.

I glanced back and forth between the three, and finally said, "Of course. As you can see, I must return soon because repairs are needed."

"Of course," he mimicked back, smirking a bit at me.

 

I was led into an office, and ordered to sit. I was alone for only a few moments when the Argentinean who had greeted me outside of my house entered.

"My apologies for not introducing myself. I am Captain Sergio Herdez."

He did not shake my hand, but instead sat down behind his desk. I simply nodded, and then asked, "What am I doing here?"

Herdez stared at me as if he were looking for something, but when I did not provide it, he said, "There have been reports that you are a spy for the English."

I was surprised, and said as much. "I am not a spy. I am a farmer; I own the farm-"

"Yes, I know," he said, interrupting me. "Still, the reports have been made, and I must investigate them."

"Do you mind if I contact the British Embassy?" I asked, trying to remain calm. Of all the problems I had anticipated, being accused of spying had not even occurred to me.

"If you are innocent, then why would you need to contact them?" Herdez asked, smiling at me.

"It is my right as a citizen," I said.

"You have no rights here, Englishman."

Two guards entered, and Herdez said to them, "Take the captain to his cell. We shall give him some time to think."

I contemplated trying to make a run for it, but I had no weapon and the two guards had me by the arms faster than I could realize that running would be a foolish gesture.

* * *

Poirot spent much of his time engaged in cases, which suited him because it kept his little grey cells from dwelling on how lonely he was, on his worry for Hastings' safety, and Hastings' final words to him. He tried to tell himself that he was worrying for nothing and that Hastings was right, but he also knew not to ignore his own instincts.

His worries proved founded when he opened up the paper one morning to read (in a small paragraph on the third page) that an uprising had taken place in the area in which Hastings' farm was located. He made Ms. Lemon stop her typing and send a telegram to Hastings. They waited, and by the afternoon they received a message that the house had been abandoned and thus the message could not be delivered.

He immediately telephoned Inspector Japp. "Chief Inspector," he said, "I am in need of your assistance."

"What can I do for you?" Japp said, putting down his notes so that he could concentrate on the conversation. He was well aware that hurt feelings remained over Hastings' trip, and Hastings warned him that Poirot was overly protective. Japp was torn between his British instinct (bloody foreigners) and his policeman's instinct (Poirot never overreacted without good reason).

Poirot explained about the newspaper article and the lack of response to his telegram. Japp nodded at the phone. "You think something has happened to the captain?"

" _Mais oui_ ," Poirot replied.

"Have you tried the British consulate?" Japp asked.

"I have not, inspector. I think that the questions might have more impact if they came from you."

Japp nodded, and said, "I'll see what I can do."

 

Two days passed before I next spoke with Captain Herdez. In the mean time, I had been left with no food and precious little water. Every day he had the guards bring me into his office, and then he asked me if I was a spy. When I said that I was not, he returned me to my cell. It was bizarre, and my only conclusion was that he was trying to wear me down so that I would confess.

At the end of a week I felt dizzy and exhausted. Captain Herdez was sitting behind his desk, smiling at me. "Your friends have discovered your situation much more quickly than we had anticipated."

My thoughts turned to Poirot. He must have discovered my plight, although I was at a loss as to how he could have discovered it so soon. I recalled his distress at my departure, and wished now that I had listened to his warnings.

Herdez continued. "More quickly than for a mere civilian."

I closed my eyes, feeling a wave of helplessness. "I am not a spy," I replied, my voice hoarse. "I've told you that already."

"How could they have discovered your absence so quickly unless you were to send frequent reports back to them?"

"I don't know," I replied.

"You are lying," he replied angrily. "I am tired of this game. You will tell us who you work for and your orders."

"I don't work for anyone," I replied, pleading. "And I have no orders. I can't tell you anything because I don't know anything!"

The thought of myself as a spy was ludicrous, and if I could have somehow convinced him of this, then I would have gladly done so.

Herdez rose from his desk, and came to stand in front of me. He said softly, "They would pick you because you have the face of a fool."

Despite the hidden warning, his slap took me by surprise. The force knocked my head back so far that for a moment I could not breathe because my throat closed.

"Who are you working for?" he asked.

"No one," I said, panting.

He struck me again in the opposite direction. I noticed one of my former workers looking at me with horror. I could not help my feelings of betrayal.

 

By the time I was back in my cell, my upper body throbbed with pain. One of my eyes had swollen shut, and I felt sure that I had a black eye. Fortunately I could feel no broken ribs or other bones, but my teeth felt rattled from my skull.

I wondered how long I would be interrogated before they would execute me. I held little hope of survival, and my only wish was that I could say goodbye one more time to Poirot. The thought of never seeing him again brought tears to my eyes, which I wiped away as quickly as I could. I could show no weakness to my enemy.

I saw one of my former workers gaze at me through the bars. He turned away, but then a few minutes later returned with something which he had shoved through the bars. It was a mug of warm tea, which I accepted gratefully. I felt pity for the workers; they must have been pressured by the new regime to work for them. I hoped that they remembered my own kindness.

* * *

The British Consulate had been helpful, but their information chilled Poirot's blood. Hastings had been accused of spying for the British government, and the Argentinean government demanded that they be allowed to interrogate their prisoner. In addition, they had refused to allow anyone in to see the captain.

However, once Poirot learned the name of the gentleman in charge of the prisoners, he seized upon the opportunity. He was not above using others' emotions to get his own way. Some might call it blackmail, but he would do anything to save Hastings.

 

Captain Herdez was considering his English prisoner. It was obvious to him that the man was no spy, but his German guests thought otherwise. Perhaps they did not care about the truth and simply hated him for being English.

"Sir, a telegram from the Belgian embassy," his lieutenant entered, and handed to him an envelope.

"Belgian embassy?" Herdez said, puzzled. They had no dealings at present with Belgium, no prisoners or treaties.

He tore open the envelope. It said: "As to the gentleman A.H., do you remember _la femme_? Please return a favor. H. Poirot."

Of course he remembered _la femme_. She became his wife, and he had been heartbroken by her death less than a year ago. Hercule Poirot had been engaged by the Belgian Embassy to investigate a murder in which his wife had been the chief suspect. All the evidence had pointed to her. Herdez had assisted as best he could, but it had been Poirot's brilliance which had freed her and led to the arrest of the real murderer. Poirot had also directed her attention to Herdez, and they had fallen in love.

Of course he remembered _la femme_ and the favor he owed to Hercule Poirot, but it would not be so easy to return that favor. He had several German "advisors" to which he reported.

He spied one of the servants scurrying to the holding cells with a mug in his hand, and he suspected he knew where the man was going. Arthur Hastings had possessed a reputation of kindness and respect towards all, and it would be only too easy for his former employees to try to help him.

He did not bother the servant, but instead began to plan his favor.

 

The next morning, Herdez called the Germans to his office, and said, "I am sorry to inform you, gentlemen, but your purported spy has died during the night."

"Died? How?" the taller of the two said.

Herdez shrugged, and said, "I must have been too rough on him yesterday."

"We wish to see his corpse for ourselves," the shorter of the two said.

"Of course," Herdez said, and stood.

He led them to the holding cell. Two female servants were crying outside of the door, but they disappeared quickly at their arrival. Hastings was laid out on his bunk, his lips tinged with blue and his skin underneath the bruises nearly white. His chest moved not at all.

The taller German reached down to touch his cheek, and feeling its iciness pulled away quickly. "It is done," he said, wiping his hand with a handkerchief.

Herdez nodded at them both, and motioned for them to go first out of the cell. As they departed, he turned to the two servants in the room, and with a quick gesture indicated the body.

The servants nodded, and quickly wrapped the body, preparing to move it.

* * *

I woke to find myself in complete darkness, uncomfortably hot and wrapped from head to foot in cloth. My body was rolling back and forth in uneven movements, as if I were in a car which was going very fast over a bumpy road. I managed to remove the cloth from my face as a heavy object rushed into my sore stomach. I was surprised when I reached out to find that it was a suitcase.

I was still debating about whether I should draw attention to myself or remain silent when the car stopped. My body jerked into the back of the seat, and I hissed at the pain.

The boot opened, and one of my former servants, Gustavo, appeared. They both helped me out, and I looked around. We were at the harbor, and I could see several ships preparing to set sail.

Gustavo took my suitcase while the other servant pushed my passport and some money into my hands so frantically that I nearly dropped everything. Gustavo took me by the elbow, and hurried me to the docks.

"What happened?" I asked, feeling breathless and out of sorts – almost as if I had been drugged.

"Herdez owed a favor, and so he spared your life," Gustavo said quickly.

"The Germans allowed him to do this?" I asked.

"No," Gustavo said. "They think you are dead, and Señor Herdez wishes them to continue thinking this."

We stopped at a passenger ship called the Persephone, and I was a bit disgruntled at the unintentional humor of her name. Persephone returned from the underworld (and thus the dead) to live on the earth for half the year. I was determined to spend the rest of my life with Poirot, and so I ignored the ill-omened name.

"May I send a message ahead?" I asked, not wanting Poirot to worry any more about my safety.

"Señor Herdez has already informed the Belgian Embassy of your release and of the ship upon which you will sail. Now, hurry."

Before I could offer my thanks, Gustavo turned and ran to the car. I watched him drive away, hoping that he would be safe. While I contemplated my former household, a hand rested on my shoulder, making me jump and wince in pain.

"Captain Hastings?" I turned to see a British gentleman standing next to me.

"Yes?"

"I am sorry to startle you, sir. My name is Lt James Murphy. I was sent by the British Embassy to assist you in returning to England."

"Oh, yes, thank you," I said, feeling a measure of gratitude but also frustration as they had been unable or unwilling to help me while I was imprisoned.

"We've booked passage for you, sir, on a more comfortable ship."

"Oh?" I said, this time much more pleased. I ached in all sorts of places, and wanted a soft bed and some whiskey for the pain.

"There will be a doctor on board to see to your wounds. You will be quite safe."

"Thank you," I replied.

"If you will follow me, sir."

Lt Murphy led me to a ship, the SS Minerva, which was far grander than the Persephone, although I am sure that it was a fine ship. My companion asked me questions about my captivity, and I answered them to the best of my ability. After asking me to write a statement about what I had experienced, he wished me a safe journey and left me to my room.

There were several passengers on the deck, and they shied away when they saw me. Once I was safely in my quarters, I was able to see why when I looked in the mirror. My right eye was black and swollen almost shut, and cuts and bruises marred my face and neck. I was pale, and looked too much like the corpses I had seen on the battlefield for my own peace of mind.

Rather than continue the contemplation of my mortality, I unpacked my things and settled in for a nap.

* * *

Poirot received a telegram just as Ms. Lemon was preparing to leave, and she knew it contained good news because Poirot kissed her several times on each cheek.

" _Mon cher_ Hastings is safe, and he is returning to me on board the Persephone!"

"Wonderful, Mr. Poirot!" Ms. Lemon said. She was very fond of the captain, and she did not wish to see him in danger. Nor did she like how despondent and anxious Poirot had become during the captain's predicament.

"We shall have to plan for his return! _Une bonne soirée_! And afterwards? I shall not allow him out of my sight."

Poirot nodded with arrogant determination. Ms. Lemon suspected that the captain would not approve of these new restrictions, but that would be an argument for another day.

"I shall gladly assist you with the organization, Mr. Poirot," Ms. Lemon said instead.

Poirot nodded at her gratefully. He would wait until the following day of Hastings' arrival; he knew that he would be unable to let go of Hastings until then.

* * *

Early on in our travels, we were joined by several other ships, including the Persephone. When I asked the captain about our new convoy, he said that there was safety in numbers.

Two weeks had passed, and we were a mere three days from Southampton, when the crew spotted suspicious activity. The alarms sounded, and all passengers were asked to put on their life vests and come above deck. I assisted a señora with her two sons, and to mitigate my own anxiety I kept them amused with toys and inane babble.

I felt the ship vibrate beneath my feet as she gained speed. The Persephone came up behind at an equal knot with us, and we could see the nervous passengers aboard her deck.

A warning cry from the stern alerted us to the terrible knowledge that a torpedo was in the water. My thoughts went once more to Poirot. I was so close to him, and yet it seemed that I might yet not return to him.

* * *

ARGENTINIAN SHIP PERSEPHONE SUNK BY POSSIBLE GERMAN SUB; NO NEWS OF SURVIVORS

Poirot read the headline a second and then a third time. He read the article closely, which only expanded upon what the title had already said. The ship his Hastings had been traveling upon had been consigned to the bottom of the sea.

With care he removed his pince-nez, and placed them on his desk, straightening them so that they sat parallel to the edge of the blotting paper. He folded the paper neatly, and rested it in the center of his desk.

He examined the evidence as impartially as he could, all the while struggling to breathe. The paper said that there was no news of survivors, and this could be judged as inconclusive. Perhaps they did not know any more than they reported?

Poirot stood, and walked into Ms. Lemon's office. She had been sorting through correspondence, and there were two stacks: one for him, and the other for Captain Hastings. She looked up as Poirot entered, and immediately knew that something was wrong.

"Ms. Lemon," he said softly. "If you please, could you ring the chief inspector and ask him to verify the fate of the Persephone."

"Mr. Poirot," she replied, her voice shaking ever so slightly. At his sorrowful look, she said, "Of course."

They waited in the sitting room for Japp to ring them back. Poirot sat in the settee, his mind conjuring multiple scenarios in which Hastings had survived and many in which he had not. When Japp finally rang them, Poirot answered the telephone.

"I'm sorry, Poirot," Japp said, his gruff voice miserable. "The reports for the Persephone say that all but a few were lost. She took two torpedo hits, and went down quickly. I've seen the list of survivors, and the captain isn't on it." Japp stopped because it was suddenly difficult to speak. "There- there could be an error."

"Perhaps, _mon ami_ ," Poirot said, and his soft response interrupted Japp's awkward attempt at comfort. "But I doubt it very much."

He thanked Japp, and hung up the receiver. He turned at the sound of Ms. Lemon's weeping, and saw her pressing her hand to her eyes. His stalwart secretary was crying, and he marveled at this show of emotion from a stoic English lady even as he felt his own tears threaten. He sat down next to her, and took her other hand.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Poirot," she said, trying to compose herself.

" _Non_ , Ms. Lemon, do not apologize." He patted her hand as his own tears fell.

 

Poirot offered to escort Ms. Lemon home, but she refused. She inquired if he needed her to stay, and he refused. He needed to be alone. She made him a cup of soothing tisane before she left, and he could hear her sniffling in the kitchen.

He knew that he should make plans; it was his duty to see to the wake and the funeral. His Catholic upbringing abhorred the thought that no body would be buried. He would have to pray at least twice as long tonight.

He took his tisane into the spare bedroom, which was cluttered with knickknacks, clothes, decorations, and assorted treasures with which Hastings could not bear to part. Cedric, that awful stuffed alligator, gazed at him. He shuddered, and left the room. No, that room did not remind him of Hastings.

The sitting room held those memories. _Mais oui_ , the sitting room, the kitchen, Ms. Lemon's office, and more recently, their bedroom. He stepped into the hallway, and saw Hastings shrugging into his overcoat, the collar already turned up. In Ms. Lemon's office, he saw Hastings sitting opposite Ms. Lemon, trying to communicate with a pharaoh or discussing investments. Poirot took pride in his cooking, and Hastings was always an enthusiastic eater. He enjoyed Hastings' company in the kitchen while he cooked, but sometimes Hastings could be quite the distraction.

He stood in the sitting room for a long while. His memories turned not to happier time but to those few days before Hastings left. Hastings had been playful, and he had rejected him. Poirot knew better than to speculate on the past, but if he had not acted in such a manner, perhaps Hastings' approach to the letter might have been different. Of course, it was impossible to know, and he was torturing himself with these thoughts.

He retired for the night. For nearly two months his bed had felt empty; now he imagined sleeping alone in it for the rest of his life.

" _Mon cher Arthur, pourquoi m'avez-vous abandonné?_ " he said softly, and then turned to his pillow.

 

Although military intelligence was rarely a part of his job, Chief Inspector Japp spoke with a few colleagues in that division because he knew how poorly Poirot had taken the news of the Persephone, which had been sunk three days previously. He wanted to make sure that no one had survived. When he was told that a second ship had also travelled from Argentina at the same time, his copper's instinct insisted that he investigate further.

The SS Minerva had also been struck by a torpedo, but unlike the Persephone, it had taken several hours to sink, giving the survivors a chance to be rescued. Only a few had been killed, and almost all of the passengers had been rescued.

He sighed in deep relief when he spotted Captain Hastings' name. The ship had pulled into Southampton last night, and surely Hastings would be on his way to London by now. He did not ask himself why Hastings was on the SS Minerva and not on the Persephone; only the captain could answer that.

Japp debated about whether he should inform Poirot right away, but ultimately he decided that he should ensure that Captain Hastings was alive and well rather than spread misleading rumors.

He stood at the platform at Waterloo for three hours. As he did not know which train Hastings was traveling upon, he had to wait for each train and hope that he was not making a mistake.

"Bloody hell," he said softly when he saw his target.

* * *

I did not have the chance to send a telegram, and so I was not expecting anyone to meet me at the platform. I waved at Inspector Japp when I saw him, and as I was burdened by no more than a single suitcase – unlike when I usually returned from Argentina – I went to him immediately. He grabbed my shoulders, and I was startled to see the emotions on his face.

"I never thought I'd see you again," he said by way of greeting.

"What do you mean?" I asked, confused.

"The British Embassy told Poirot that you were on the Persephone," Japp replied. "We thought you were dead."

"Good lord!" I cried, shocked by his words. "Poirot! He thinks-"

"Yes, and we need to get you over there in a hurry."

"You will find no argument from me," I said, picking up my bag.

 

Japp drove me to Whitehaven Mansions, and we arrived just as Ms. Lemon was leaving for the day. I was startled to see her dressed entirely in black, her face paler than normal. I stepped out of the car almost before Japp had stopped. "Ms. Lemon!" I cried.

Ms. Lemon stared at me for a moment, and then shocked me again by running to embrace me. I returned the embrace, holding her close and patting her on the shoulder.

"We thought you were dead," Ms. Lemon said into my shoulder.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she replied firmly, sounding more like her old self. She let go of me, and looked up at the flat. "Mr. Poirot…"

"How is he?"

"Not well," she replied.

"I-" I looked up at the flat.

"You can tell me what happened later, captain," Ms. Lemon said, and then she gestured upward with her head.

I nodded, and said to Japp, "Thank you."

 

I stood at the front door, contemplating the wreath of white chrysanthemums that hung upon the door. I turned the key and entered quietly, putting down my suitcase as soon as I could. More chrysanthemums were on the hallway table, and the mirror was covered with black cloth. I closed the door, and stepped further into the flat.

In the sitting room, the curtains were drawn, and the only light came from a few candles. It was black and terrible; I felt chilled at this visit to my own wake. I rushed around Poirot's desk, and jerked open the curtains. The light stung my eyes, but I was pleased to see that the sitting room looked a little more itself. Poirot's rosary was on his desk as was an open Bible.

I looked up when the bedroom door opened. Poirot emerged, dressed in black mourning clothes. He looked to Ms. Lemon's office, and said, "Ms. Lemon, I asked that the curtains remain closed."

He looked at me, and stopped abruptly. We stared at each other until I said softly, "Ms. Lemon has gone for the evening."

" _Seigneur_ ," Poirot whispered after a moment's pause, his face pale.

I could not remain parted from him any longer, and so I hurried into his arms. He grabbed me roughly; I did not protest, but held him just as tightly. I could not discern who of us was trembling more. His hands slide over my arms, my back, and neck as if to make sure I was not a ghost. I let him touch whatever he wished, needing the reassurance of his touch.

" _Bon dieu_ , Arthur, it is you! _Mon cher ami_!" Poirot lapsed into his native tongue at a speed faster than I could comprehend, but I understood the relief and love in his words.

"My dearest Hercule," I said, although he continued to talk. "They told you the wrong ship. I am so sorry. They told you the wrong ship."

I would have continued to apologize, but Poirot silenced me with a light kiss. This kiss turned into a second and a third, and soon we were engaged in a kiss as lusty and desperate as I had ever experienced. Poirot's hand in my hair held me in place, although I did not wish to move, and we only parted when the need for air forced us.

Poirot cupped my cheek gently, his eyes examining me once more. My black eye had healed, and most of my other cuts and bruises had disappeared, but I remained an unappealing pale color and thinner than usual. "You will let me take care of you, yes?" he said softly.

I nodded, and whispered, "Yes, please."

Poirot smiled, and kissed me again, this time keeping it gentle but thorough. He then kissed my hand before leading me to the bedroom. We continued to kiss as he undressed first me and then himself, forgoing his usual care with his clothes but letting them fall to the floor. I looked down at the fine black cloth, intending to inquire as to Poirot's carelessness, but he kissed me and said, "I shall not wear them again, Arthur."

I nodded in understanding, blinking back the sudden tears. I could see the answering gleam in his eyes, and kissed him in return.

With his hands and his body he encouraged me to lie on my back. His caresses and kisses covered my skin, and I moaned and moved into each, eager for more. It felt like decades since we made love, and I wanted him.

I encouraged him to lie beside me, and then gently took his shaft in my hand, curling my fingers around its heat and hard weight. He arched into my touch, moaning loudly. I murmured into his ear how much I needed him and how I loved him. He returned the favor with his broad hand on my own shaft, and soon we were both crying out at the pleasure.

I fell asleep soon afterward, nestled snug in Poirot's arms.

* * *

I woke to find myself alone in bed, but I could hear movement in the sitting room and smell food being cooked. I cleaned and dressed quickly, and then went to find Poirot. I noticed that the sitting room was almost devoid of any hint of mourning. The flowers and dark cloth was gone, and the candles extinguished. I went to the kitchen, and saw Poirot just closing the rubbish chute.

"The flowers?" I asked.

"No longer necessary, _mon ami_ ," Poirot replied, quite pleased with himself.

I smiled, and kissed him. 

Poirot insisted that he needed to finish cooking, and so I sat in the kitchen and watched while he attended to his pots. "It is not a grand meal, Hastings," he said, turning to give me an apologetic look.

"I am happy to eat anything you prepare, Poirot," I replied, smiling at him.

Poirot smiled back, but his smile was sad. I raised my eyebrows, asking him silently if he wished to tell me.

"I had planned _une bonne soirée_ to celebrate your return, but when the news reached me…"

I stood up to embrace him, and it was a testament of his distraught emotions that he embraced me in return without complaining that his food would burn. I held him tightly, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Oh, Poirot," I sighed softly, "I was supposed to sail on the Persephone." Poirot shuddered at my words, and I held him tighter. "A representative from the British Embassy arrived as I was about to board, and they put me on a more luxurious ship. If only I had been in my right mind! I should have made sure that they send you a message."

Poirot shook his head, and looked up at me. "You were tired and injured, yes? You were in no state to take care of such matters. I do not blame you, _mon chou_."

I sighed in relief, and kissed him tenderly.

 

After dinner, we retired arm-in-arm to the settee with our drinks. I knew that Poirot would ask me about my adventures, and I was content to wait for him to ask; in truth, I did not wish to recount them because I did not wish to remember.

" _Mon cher_ Hastings, will you tell me what happened? In Argentina and then later?" He looked at me, and I could see the hesitance in his eyes.

I nodded, and told him about my incarceration and then my escape. He was furious that Herdez's solution was to drug me, but I did not care because it worked. I then said that I was put on the SS Minerva.

"Hastings? But that ship was sunk, too?" Poirot replied, alarmed.

"Yes, it was," I replied, remembering the hollow bang and the way the ship seemed to rise beneath my feet. The screams of those on board as the torpedo hit did serve to overwhelm the cries from those on the doomed Persephone. "We only took one hit, however, and the HMS Sebastian was able to rescue us in plenty of time."

" _Mon dieu_ ," Poirot replied, holding me closer. "You had 'the close call'… twice!"

I nodded, and pressed a kiss to his temple. "My thoughts were always about you, Poirot."

I refrained, though, from saying that Poirot had been right; there was my pride to consider. He had been correct about the danger, but I also knew that I would have been unable to do otherwise. I regretted causing him such grief, but I would not have been able to hold my head up if I had cowered in fear.

" _Mon ami_?" Poirot said, drawing me from my thoughts.

"I could hear them, Hercule, the passengers from the Persephone. They screamed and screamed until the sound dissipated into nothing."

Poirot shuddered and held me tighter; he said nothing, and I was thankful for that. "You are safe here," he replied softly after some time had passed.

"Yes, but for how long?" I asked. "War is coming."

Poirot nodded. "We shall be together, yes?"

I smiled at that. "Yes, we shall."

**Author's Note:**

> Note: The SS Minerva is based on the SS Athena.


End file.
